Karl Kroenen's Bad Day
by Blu Embyr
Summary: Kroenen was only happy when he was playing Wagner...Humorous oneshot.


Hello, it's BluEmbyr here, after…TOO FREAKIN' LONG!!! Anyhoo, I'm posting my daily brain-vomit inspired by hours of reading comics and imbibing much sugar. Not much to say about this one, other than it's Kroenen having a Bad Day for your amusement. Beta-read by FlyingFish15. Ha! Role reversal (ain't it wunnerful?)!

Disclaimer: If I owned Hellboy, it would be screwed up beyond belief. Trust me.

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The view zooms in on a man, slight of build and wearing black, sitting quietly at his desk, writing. The silence is briefly disturbed by the sounds of a passing train, and then the room quiets again, save for the soft sounds of a ticking clock. This could be a normal office on any normal day, were it not for the giant furnace in the background and the mechanical hand sitting on the table next to the stump of the man's arm.

Barring that, the man could still pass for an eccentric amputee, if it weren't for the gas mask, which really destroyed all semblance of positive public image.

The man continued to write in neat, clipped script, pausing every now and again to think and make a mark. Over his shoulder, the hellish flames of the furnace are the only illumination. Another subway train passes by, causing mortar dust to filter gently down from the ceiling.

The infrequent passing of the trains is the only interruption until….

The door of the room is thrown open with a (dramatic) crash. A woman with blonde hair stomps in, her (shiny) black boots taking short, businesslike steps towards the rather dubious man in black. He pretended not to notice, even as she halted just in front of the desk and stared down her (pointy!) nose at the back of his bowed head.

The man made her wait until he had finished the last word of his sentence, then, with deliberate idleness, he went back to the beginning of the sentence and began to dot his "i"s.

The woman's left eye twitched as the man's movements got gradually slower and more openly insolent, delaying the moment which was sure to ruin his otherwise neutral-tending-towards-but-not-exactly-good mood. The woman balled her fists at her sides and watched him studiously ignore her until she could no longer stand it.

"Karl!" She screeched, slamming her hands down on the scarred, and suspiciously red, surface of the desk. The man froze, his pen in the act of descending towards the paper, and slowly raised his head in acknowledgement. The pair locked gazes for a solid minute, neither moving in the slightest. Jarred by the impact of the woman's hands on the desk, a sacrificial paperweight rolled off the edge and plunged towards oblivion.

The subsequent shattering of glass and scattering of shrapnel jerked the pair out of their glaring contest. Karl returned calmly to his paper, finishing the last of the "i"s with a flourish.

"Ilsa," he acknowledged. Ilsa Haupstein stepped out of the rubble of the glass orb and drew herself up with as much dignity as she could muster. Without a word, she thrust a sheaf of papers onto the desk…right where Kroenen had been writing. Kroenen gave a long-suffering mental sigh. _Well, so much for piece and quiet_….

Reluctantly, he raised his gaze to Ilsa and gave her his most terrifying glare; the kind that would send hellhounds scurrying for cover. Ilsa may even have turned to ash under his baleful gaze, were it not for the gas mask nicely blocking her view of the teed-off assassin. Regardless, Ilsa was unnerved by Kroenen's steely attitude and sudden bi-polar mood swing….or it could have been the remnants of the crushed pen which now resided in Kroenen's clenched fist.

"What. Is. It," Karl snarled, knowing full well that unless he pried the answer out of Ilsa quickly, she'd annoy him to no end with trivial observations and then heap on an impossible task before leaving in a huff. He had sixty plus years of experience to speak from; he knew what would happen. Ilsa tried to appear imperious as she gazed down at Karl.

"Zeez are ze planz for Russia, after ze demon followz uz to ze Maul-so-leeum. Ve need you to boook a flight to Russia, az vell az transport for vhen ve get zere. Inside, you vill find deetailed instructionz on 'ow to deal vith ze demon and vhere you vill vait for 'im." Her speech finished with what she obviously thought was a regal flourish, Ilsa turned and stalked out of the room like a rickety wading bird walking through molasses.

Kroenen stared after her for a moment, counting down until she tripped over the one loose tile in the floor that she_ always_ tripped on. Sure enough, Kroenen was rewarded with the delightful sounds of a body impacting with wet tile, and then a loud stream of vivid and colorful adjectives directed at the unsuspecting tile. It almost made him smile in satisfaction…almost.

His sudden gloomy attitude somewhat relieved, Kroenen turned back to his blueprint sketch of his mechanical hand (complete with do-it-yourself step-by-step instructions!), and found that he had no spirit to continue. He didn't have a pen anymore either, but that was beside the point. He picked up his hand and re-attached it, flexing the fingers a few times to get the feel for them. He looked at his deceased pen lying in little metal pieces on his desk, and methodically picked them up one by one.

Sprinkling the remnants of the pen into the convenient garbage pail, Karl Kroenen dragged the papers wearily towards himself and began the tedious task of looking through the Major Domo's notes and plans and sketches and blueprints and doodles and idle wonderings and general insanity written in the margins of the pages.

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The clockwork assassin could feel night coming on like a blanket of crackling energy flowing over his senses, and he could do nothing to relieve said pent-up energy, because he was _still_ going through those twice-cursed notes given to him by Ilsa earlier that morning. With a growl of impatience, Kroenen ripped through the remaining pages of tedium and tossed them messily around his self-appointed "study," gleefully watching them fall like huge snowflakes. The only things of importance in them had been the blueprint on page sixteen and the interesting doodle of a stick-figure which looked like Ilsa on fire.

Kroenen stashed the blueprint in the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a new pen. Noting the considerable lack of spare pens, he made a mental note to filch some off a geek the next time he was out. He was just about to get started on finishing his step-by-step home instructions on building a mechanical hand (for amputee children 3 and up…who have unusually large hands), when Ilsa made her cantankerous appearance again. Kroenen seriously considered shoving his new pen through her trachea, but thought better of it. Without Ilsa there, it would be Grigori interrupting him, and that was _infinitely_ worse than anything Ilsa could throw at him.

"Karl, eet iz almozt deener time, vhat vould you like? Ve vere zinking aboot Chineeze take-owt," Ilsa said, producing a pad of paper and a pencil. She waited expectantly for his reply.

_I'd like your head on a platter, with macaroni salad and blood sausage made from your despicable carcass_…. Kroenen thought vengefully. Ilsa knew full well that he didn't have to eat, much less have a preference as to what he would consume. He made a gesture as if shooing away a pesky bug and returned to his previous occupation. "I'm not hungry, as you well know."

Ilsa pursed her painted lips and edged closer.

"But you must be, after all, you 'aven't eeten een almozt seixtee years!"

Kroenen did not look up, but he could feel the amused vibes flowing off of Ilsa like stink off a warthog. He ground his teeth and begged for patience from whatever higher being deigned to listen, and slowly raised his head. Ilsa smirked as her unwilling target met her gaze…

…and leaped over the desk brandishing his pen like a javelin. With a shrill shriek, Ilsa turned and ran, hearing Kroenen trot along at a jovial pace right behind her, shouting not-so-jovial threats involving pens and multiple botched resurrections and subsequent bloody murders. The pair trampled through the tunnels of the city's underground, shouting, screaming, and generally making a mess of each other and the scenery. Their chase ended only when they burst into a random room in their "lair" and found Grigori muttering insanely and drawing diagrams on the walls. He wasn't drawing diagrams for long however, and the pair exited the room mere seconds later, their eardrums ringing with the promise of a thousand and one tortures if they "ever barged in on me again!"

A few moments later and far, far away, Kroenen collapsed into a black heap against a tiled wall and sat there, knees against his chest and forehead resting on his arms in a very adolescent pose. He sighed and tried not to think of what his life had become, pandering to a delusional resurrected zombie and dealing with the bad puns of a bored immortal, constantly PMSing woman. Not to mention the location. First the vast estate overlooking German countryside, and now a dingy subway tunnel underneath possibly the noisiest city in the whole world. And no retirement benefits! He was certain he was going to Hell if he ever died, and if Grigori's plan didn't work, he was certain he would die.

Kroenen forcefully banged his head against the wall behind him, trying to knock such thoughts out of his head before he got depressed and impaled himself again…or before the Ogdru Jahad pried into his head and found his less-than-loyal thoughts.

Kroenen prepared to hit his head again, when he heard a small metallic click. He froze, expecting to feel a bullet rip through his haphazardly sewn together flesh any second. Not that it would matter much. He just needed to know where the shooter was so he could kill them in one fluid strike. Then, a sudden thought, _I would have heard anyone sneak up on me, I practically have bionic hearing!_

Kroenen peered around, looking for the source of the noise, and finally looked up. He discovered that when he had hit his head against the wall the first time, he had triggered a small, simple mechanism which opened a sliver of a door in the wall behind him. _Oh_.

Kroenen stared at the dark space behind him, slightly upside-down since he hadn't bothered to change positions. As far as he could tell, it was small, only about the size of the average apartment bathroom, and completely empty save for a small, unremarkable cardboard box, which upon closer inspection proved to be rather mildewy.

His curiosity piqued and troubles forgotten for the moment, Karl uncurled like a fern unfurling its leaves and squeezed through the partially-opened door into the dark room. And right into a metal pull-chain hanging from the ceiling. With a huff, Karl swatted the chain aside and examined the small space. It was rather plain, just four plywood walls and a concrete floor, slightly damp from a tiny leak in one corner, and then the box. It wasn't too much of a stretch to say that some of the older orphans who had previously lived in this sunken orphanage had made this room as an escape from their dreary existence. He was glad he wore gloves. Curious, Kroenen walked over to the box and gently tapped it with the toe of his boot. Mold spores shot up in a tiny cloud, but otherwise nothing happened. Kroenen crouched down and pulled a knife out of his boot, glad he'd worn the gas mask because the mold was now sporing with vigor. Knife poised to strike, Kroenen gently edged his fingertips under the lip of the box's remaining lid and paused.

With a burst of inhuman speed, he ripped the lid back and brought the knife down. And then stopped a hair's breadth above the face of a tiny, teddy-bear made from what appeared to be rather grungy, heavily patched socks. Pulling the knife back, Kroenen scanned the meager contents of the box; the bear, the disintegrated remnants of some papers, a pencil, a few round pebbles, and more mold obscuring one corner of the box, reaching out with grasping fuzzy tendrils to almost touch the bear. For reasons unknown, Kroenen disliked this very much and swiftly snatched the bear out of the reach of the creeping fuzz with a snarl.

He stood abruptly, an avenging angel in black, and without further ado, chucked the offending box out of the room and as far down the tunnel as he could throw it…which was pretty dang far. It hit the wall and crumpled into a dejected heap as Kroenen busily placed the bear safely into a deep pocket of his overcoat and stalked off, closing the door to the secret room behind him and taking careful note of its trigger.

Almost as soon as Kroenen reached his study and dragged out his trusty ruler, Ilsa barged in, stepping gingerly over the papers and shards of glass scattered around. Kroenen, already irrationally (and rationally) irritated at one thing or another, snapped "What do you _WANT_ woman!?"

Ilsa stopped abruptly, startled. Then she composed herself and delivered her message as quickly as she could while staying within the parameters of being coherent. "Az punishment for bharging-k een on Grigori, you muzt feex deener for 'im…and myzelf ."

Kroenen stared at her for a moment, waiting for the worst. "And…? That's it?"

Ilsa nodded, too afraid Kroenen would shove the ruler he had in his fist through her eye. After all, he had _not_ been in a good mood today.

Kroenen thought for a minute, then, "What was _your_ punishment?"

Ilsa grimaced. "Ah have yet to find owt."

Karl had a sneaking suspicion he knew what it would be. He made a quick gesture of dismissal with the ruler in his hand. "Fine. Get out."

Ilsa obeyed with all speed, scattering papers here and there in her haste. Chuckling darkly to himself, Kroenen began measuring his phonograph and favorite chair. Fixing dinner for Grigori and Ilsa would provide the perfect distraction for what he had in mind.

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Much later, a henpecked (or should it be roosterpecked?) Kroenen was stirring a pot of tomato sauce and expertly rolling ground…meat…into meatballs. Hey, spaghetti was an easy meal, and they'd be so full of the heavy Italian food that they would fall right to sleep. Kroenen almost grinned behind his much sleeker "work" mask, checking on the garlic bread as he thought of his perfect plan.

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Kroenen exited the kitchen in a waft of warm air smelling strongly of good Italian food and discarded his bloodstained apron. He was sure there was some spaghetti sauce on there too, somewhere, but he couldn't be certain. He strode down the tunnels towards his study with an air of satisfaction, after all, he had successfully distracted both Ilsa and Rasputin and he was henceforth free to enact his plan. Karl walked into the furnace room and without further ado picked up his phonograph, stand and all, and walked right back out again.

Over the course of a half hour, he made many such trips, emptying various drawers of items and pulling sheet metal off the walls, even going so far as to pick up an wielder's torch and a glass lampshade. Finally, Kroenen made one last trip. Opening the bottom drawer of his desk, he glanced around and quickly pulled the rather battered teddy-bear out from under a surgical sewing kit and shoved it (gently) into his pocket. That done, he turned in a swirl of his black overcoat and strolled past the modified kitchen, cautiously poking his head into the dining room to see that both Ilsa and Grigori were still chatting sleepily.

Contented, Kroenen made his way back to the secret room he had found earlier, and pressed a tile. Nothing happened. Kroenen regarded it for a moment and then, rolling his lidless eyes, pressed the tile next to it. The newly oiled mechanism clicked softly and the hidden door slid open smoothly on silent hinges. With a smile, Kroenen walked into the room and closed the door behind him, pulling the light-chain as he did so. The new electric bulb lit up the room with a warm glow from behind its antique red glass lampshade, the burnished metal plating on the walls throwing the light into flickering reflections, much like the fires of the furnace in his study. Kroenen smiled as he sat in his favorite chair, stationed in the middle of the room, and began winding the crank on his phonograph, which was a comfortable distance from his chair.

With a ceremonial air, he opened the drawer in his phonograph table and withdrew a well-loved record, still in its original case. With utmost care, Kroenen placed the record on the phonograph and switched it on, lowering the needle onto the vinyl record. After a few pops and squeaks, music flowed out of the phonograph and for the first time in ages, he began to feel himself genuinely relax. He was away from the annoyances of his fellows, basking in the warm glow of a place he had made without any help from said fellows, listening to Wagner. Everything else was so far away and so trivial, now that he was in his own small nook which could even be called cozy.

Karl withdrew the bear from his pocket and set it on the phonograph stand, leaning its tiny torso against the base of the music box. As he gazed at it he felt, for the first time in an _excruciatingly_ long time, the warm glow of happiness. After all, he was really only happy when he was playing Wagner.

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If you liked it, leave a review! I appreciate all comments and suggestions. :)


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